That's What Friends Are For
by Fic Fairy
Summary: Sometimes when you're drunk, and miserable, all you need is your best friend.
1. The Morning After

Connie was hungover. She knew it before she opened her eyes; the thudding in her head and the extreme feelings of nausea being a perfectly adequate indicator that she had imbibed considerably more than she should have done the night before.

Reluctantly she forced herself to let daylight into her world, and instantly groaned as she did so and the pain in her head became considerably worse. It was not going to be a good day by any stretch of the imagination. Still squinting slightly she looked around her bedroom, fought the urge to vomit as the unwelcome bouquet of white wine reached her from a half drunk glass on her bedside table, and then became somewhat curious when she noticed her washing up bowl on the floor at the side of the bed.

The presence of the washing up bowl showed quite a lot of organisational skills, which, somehow seemed like they might have been a little bit beyond her the night before given her apparently alcohol induced state. Her first concern was that Grace might have put it there, which would have been, in terms of her parenting, fairly catastrophic and would probably involve multiple angry phone calls from Sam; much deserved of course, but then… no. It couldn't have been Grace. Grace had done her usual, objected to something fairly mundane like having to go to school the following day, and rang the ever obliging, really bloody irritating, Granny Strachan to come and pick her up. God she hated that women.

She was just therefore congratulating herself on having the foresight to bring the bowl to bed when there was a knock on the bedroom door. She groaned inwardly, partly because the noise was like a sledgehammer to her head, but more importantly she had no idea who was behind the knock, and none of the options really appealed.

She took a deep breath – prayed fervently that it wasn't Jacob – and called out for whoever it was to enter.

Charlie. Well, Charlie was better than Jacob. At least with Charlie she wasn't running the risk of having slept with him and therefore having to deal with the sticky issue of conscious uncoupling yet again. She pulled her duvet around herself and looked up at him awkwardly.

"Hey."

He smiled at her kindly, and held out a cup of coffee which she took gratefully.

"How are we feeling this morning?"

It was typical Charlie; gentle, non judgemental, but with just enough concern to make her feel completely bloody awful. She looked away, biting her lip and feeling like a naughty child.

"Rough and," she glanced down at the bowl again, "a little embarrassed. Well, no, a lot embarrassed."

To her surprise he sat down on the bed beside her, which – if she was completely honest – felt a little over intimate, and reached out to squeeze her shoulder.

"It's OK, Connie. I won't deny it was an-", he paused, apparently looking for the right word, "interesting night but it's not a problem. I understand."

She closed her eyes and sighed, not particularly enjoying the concept of having been the cause of an interesting anything. She was just wondering if she ought to start apologising when Charlie spoke again.

"To be honest, I'm quite flattered. I mean if I were 20 years younger…"

Her eyes flew open in horror as his words hung in the air. She looked at him, searching his face for any indicator that what he was implying was his idea of a joke, but saw nothing except a dawning sense of realisation that she had no idea what he was talking about.

"You don't remember." He said softly, seemingly suddenly as awkward as she was. "You have no recollection."

She shook her head; embarrassment, mortification and the urge to vomit all threatening to overwhelm her simultaneously.

"No, Charlie, I don't remember. What the hell happened last night?"


	2. The Night Before

The evening before begun with a straight forward question about rotas, sent by text from Connie's iPhone to Charlie's Nokia brick. The text, although seemingly innocent, immediately set Charlie's concern sensors going, not least because Connie had already asked him said same question three times during the course of their ED shift earlier in the day. He was aware; more than aware, that his boss was currently off the boil professionally and personally, but all the same it was definitely a cause for concern.

He replied anyway, but took the hint that maybe, just maybe, she was looking for a bit of human contact and conversation, and followed up by asking how her evening was going.

And thus the floodgates had opened. Over the course of her next three texts he ascertained that Grace had flounced off to her grandmas, Connie had opened a bottle of wine, and that typing was no longer Connie's strong point given a reference in her final message to Penis Grigio.

From his comfy armchair in his nice warm living room, Charlie cursed inwardly the day he'd seen fit to take on the role of surrogate father to the handful that was his Clinical Lead. He berated himself for pushing his TLC and advice on her when she'd initially resisted it, and not taking the hint and giving up. Had he done that he might not have ended up in a position where he felt duty bound to put down his book; a particularly scintillating Spy novel, change out of his Jack Wills lounge pants (a gift from the lady herself – he'd had a fit when he'd seen how much a pair of pyjama bottoms had set her back!), get in his car and make the journey from his neighbourhood to hers.

All that said, once he arrived and she opened the front door, a cagey look on her tearstained face, he was glad he'd gone. She was clearly in need of some support, as much as she tried to argue it as she walked back through her hallway to the living room, tripping over the bottoms of her pair of oversized scrubs as she did so, and winding up in a heap on the floor.

She stopping arguing then, and sat crumpled up on the carpet, looking more like an upset child than a professional mother of one in her forties. He contemplated getting down on the floor beside her, but decided, wisely, that it wouldn't do anything for his back and so helped her up and gently guided her to the living room.

Once he got her there, and she curled up on the sofa with him at her side, she picked up exactly where she left off. Protesting.

"You didn't have to come." She said, the distinct slur to her voice a pretty good indicator that he was late arriving at party which had been going on for some time.

"I did. I was worried. Rightfully so I'd say." He watched her carefully unsure what her response to a statement of such an out and out confrontation would be, and concerned he might get his eyes scratched out for daring to suggest she was anything other than completely fine. "You don't look like you're in a good place."

"It's fine." She picked up one of two wine bottles on the table, one empty, the other, now in her hand, already under half full. "I'm alright." She looked at him, "I might have been upset earlier but now I'm fine." She topped up her glass and then looked at him questioningly, "Drink?"

He was tempted to suggest that the wine bottles, and the plethora of used tissues that surrounded them implied that she was a long way from fine but he decided to stall before saying as much by instead accepting her offer of a drink. At least if he drank it, she couldn't.

He nodded, and got to his feet, "I'll get myself a glass." He made to head for the kitchen but before he could she was on her feet and following him, making declarations of being a good hostess and getting one for him.

Such declarations aside she made it only as far as the kitchen before once again tripping on her flowing scrubs bottoms, only avoiding landing on her face by his very swift intervention as he reached out, grabbed her by the back of the scrub top and kept her on her feet. He sat her down at the kitchen table and gave her firm instructions not to move whilst he busied himself looking for glass.

"I'm not drunk." She said, sullenly, sounding like a truculent teen and to which end reminding him of Grace more than he suspected either mother or daughter would approve of. "It's the scrubs. They're too big."

Whilst Charlie was unconvinced by the argument, not entirely sure that the scrubs alone were to blame, he decided to play along, not least because her words gave him a very definite in, in terms of getting her to talk to him.

"I had noticed." He said, gently, taking in once again the way her tiny frame was dwarfed by the oversized scrubs, "They're not yours are they?"

At his words tears brimmed in her eyes, and she shook her head, swallowing hard, clearly trying to stop herself from crying.

"They're Jacob's."

Her words were a long way from a surprise, but the obvious emotion in her voice was something of a shock. Connie trusted him, he knew that, and over the months he'd been closer to her than anyone in the ED with one noteworthy exception, but he'd never seen her quite like this. So vulnerable, so open. The alcohol was playing a part, that much was obvious, but it was still jarring to see her in a place where her emotions were so raw and she seemed to broken.

"OK, darling." He spoke soothingly to her, even more so than normal. "Well I'm concerned you're going to do yourself an injury, and I really," he gave her a smile, trying to keep things light, "really don't want to spend the night at work, so could we go upstairs and get into something that actually fits."

"NO!"

He response was sharp, and snapped, the idea of losing the comfort blanket of Jacob's clothing clearly being a step too far for her. It worried Charlie. He'd known how much she'd adored his fellow Nurse; it had been obvious from the way her eyes rarely drifted from him when the two of them were in the same room and in the smile that had barely left her face during the time they had been dating, but Connie Beauchamp was a strong woman. Too strong to be crumbling like this.

He crouched beside her, and very gently tried to bargain with her, suggesting that she keep the top on, but swap the trousers for something a little more practical. She looked like she was going to resist, but when he went over to her washing machine and plucked a pair of floral pyjamas from a neat, obviously clean, pile that sat on top of it, she slowly nodded, took them from him and shuffled slowly and carefully towards the downstairs cloakroom.

Charlie found himself a glass and headed back into the living room, busying himself disposing of her tissue mountain, and pouring himself some wine, before settling down on the sofa to wait for her. He considered making her a coffee but suspected it would only go to waste. Connie didn't look like someone who was planning on ending the party any time soon.

She reappeared five minutes later, still drowning in Jacob's scrub top but at least sensibly attired from the waist down, and sat down beside him before reaching for her wine. She sipped it, and then glanced over at him and gave him a weak smile,

"Thank you for coming. I'm grateful. It's good to have you here."

He smiled, seeing her comment as progress, glad that she was no longer resisting his support.

"It's good to be here." He replied before sipping his own wine, "I'm particularly enjoying the Penis Grigio."

Confusion clouded her face for a second, and then silently she reached for her phone and checked her messages, laughing slightly as she realised her mistake and then blushing in a very unConnie like way.

"I'm sorry. I guess I'm drunker than I thought."


	3. Grace

It was the admission he needed to push her slightly harder, "I'd say so." He said gently, "Shall we talk about it?"

At the question she shrugged, her eyes clouding again, "What's to talk about Charlie? My relationship with Grace is a mess. My relationship with Jacob is a mess. I'm," she sighed, glancing down at Jacob's scrub top which – if Charlie was going to be brutally honest – looked like it hadn't been washed in weeks, "a mess. Are you getting the idea?"

Charlie was, and it wasn't just the wine and tears that were informing his conclusions. It wasn't just the size of the unwashed top that made it look so big, she'd obviously lost weight, and her behaviour at work of late was a real cause for concern. She rarely made it out into the department, generally shirking her responsibility to her patients and spending as much time as possible locked away in her office. Charlie had tried to be patient, and encourage those around him to be likewise, but things had clearly been coming to ahead for a while.

That said, he wasn't about to raise work with her there and then. One step at a time, after all, and perhaps if he could get her to work through her other issues, the work problem might right itself.

"Let's start with Grace." He said firmly, giving her no room for manoeuvre. "Tell me about tonight."

Connie sighed, once again looking reluctant to talk. "She started going on about not wanting to go to school tomorrow. She knew I was off and wanted to spend the day with me. I said she couldn't."

"Well that's fair enough." Charlie remarked supportively, "It's nice that she wants to spend time with you but education is important, Connie. It's your job as her mother to put your foot down."

Connie shook her head tiredly, "You don't get it. It's not that simple. She didn't want to go to school because she doesn't trust me. She thinks I'm going to be," she laughed bitterly, "what was it she said? Oh yes, 'booty calling' Jacob the minute her back is turned."

Booty calling wasn't a phrase Charlie was familiar with but he had an imagination and could work it out, and couldn't help but agree with Connie that if that was the motive behind Grace wanting to stay off school it was clearly an indicator of greater issues with the mother daughter relationship.

"Is she right to be worried?" He asked hesitantly, afraid that Connie might take offence at the question, but to his relief she just laughed again.

"Does this look like the face of a woman whose getting laid?"

Having seen her 'woman getting laid face' Charlie had to concur that the pale drawn and exceptionally sad looking one in front of him was not indicative of any kind of extracurricular activities occurring.

"Did you try to reassure her?" he asked, and in response, Connie sighed tiredly, her frustration more than clear,

"I've tried to reassure her until I'm blue in the face but she won't let it go. She's like a jealous husband. I have to let her see my emails, she checks my texts, she calls me 20 times a day if we're not together. I don't know what else I can do."

Charlie had always had his suspicions that Grace was not the most 'together' child he had ever met, but Connie's confession seriously concerned him, and he wasn't sure what worried him most, Grace's insecurities, the extent to which she was using them to manipulate Connie or the fact that Connie was allowing herself to pushed around by her daughter. It was no wonder she wasn't dealing with things well if she was dealing with such behaviour constantly. He couldn't help thinking that the two of them needed some external support from the professionals, and made a conscious decision to give Connie the details of one of his family counselling acquaintances just as soon as she sobered up.

He was curious however as to why Grace, if she was as clingy as Connie was suggesting, would disappear off to her Grandmother's leaving her mum home alone, presumably completely capable of picking up her phone and making a far more appropriately timed night time 'booty call'. He asked Connie, but she just shrugged,

"She's a hormonal pre-teen, there is no rhyme or reason. It's what makes her so hard to deal with. One minute she's smothering me and not letting me have a second to myself and the next," she drained her glass, with a sigh, "the next she's walking out on me to punish me for everything I've ever said and done wrong." She got to her feet, "Another drink?"

He opened his mouth to say that he thought she'd had enough but before he could she silenced him with her trademark death stare, before moving to one corner of the room, where her usually well stocked cocktail cabinet was looking slightly depleted. She picked up one of the remaining bottles, an excellent looking single malt, and two tumblers and then made her way back to him, looking like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders.

"Of course the worst thing is," she returned to the subject of Grace as she sloshed out two very generous measures, "I'm glad she's gone. I should feel hurt and punished and all the things she wants me to feel, but I don't. I feel relieved."

"Because you don't have to deal with her tantrums and threats?" Charlie asked her carefully, being sure to as sound as non-judgemental as possible.

Connie nodded, looking embarrassed, "Partly, but also because if she's not standing in front of me, I don't resent her so much."

"You resent her?" He asked gently, again keeping his tone as neutral as he could.

Giving a second nod, she knocked her whisky back in one, "You bet I do, because if it wasn't for her, I'd still have Jacob."


End file.
